We Burn
by Pynnelopi
Summary: Sequel to 'Gale at my Side,' in which Gale and Katniss face adversity in the knowledge that becoming a victor doesn't mean you've escaped the games. But, being the 2 amazing individuals they are, they'll find escape. Could it be thru rebellion? Now M.
1. Chapter 1

WE BURN

**PART I **

**A/N: You would not believe how many times it took me to get this one right – I couldn't seem to find a rhythm for the story. It was always to slow, and I needed to set up the stress & tension they were under before I could really write any fluff (which will be coming soon, don't worry). So this first chapter of my second book, mind you, is the product of much hard work. Also, it's a little more grim than my first book, especially in this chapter. Stick with the evilness, though, because it'll pay off in the end. And my last request? Reviews. They are awesome. Oh, and I'll be posting this onto the end of my first story, too, but only for the first chapter. **

**Disclaimer: I'm Suzanne Collins, so you should all bow down to me and kiss my toes and stuff, because I am an amazing author. Haha, just kidding, I'm a lowly highschool kid. **

**Enjoy. **

I slowly grind my carefully manicured toe into the ground behind the wooden podium, my shaky fingers twitching nervously. As I draw the courage to look up, I see the immense population of District 11 gathered before me. I pick up on a monotonous buzz, the sound of a crowd impatiently awaiting my words.

A man dressed in an ultramodern, cream suit hands Gale a large plaque that's inlaid with metal and covered in a thin sheet of glass, and presents me with a bouquet of flowers. I detect orange blossom, and maybe freesia, and something else with small white blossoms that I don't recognize.

With relief, I note that there isn't a single rose to be seen. Good – I need no reminder of President Snow and his headily sweet, but poisonous and thorny mannerisms.

The short, balding man in the suit nods at us, and returns to his seat beside the stage. This is our cue to present our speech.

Clearing my throat, it takes me a few tries to form coherent discourse, even though I'm only repeating the heavily censored prompts that have already been written down for me by someone in the capitol who's paid far, far too much.

"We would like to thank you, the citizens of District 11, for your support of the 74th Hunger Games and of the Capitol," I say after a few false starts, my cheeks twitching with the falsely pleasant expression that Cinna has affixed to my face.

Now it's Gale's turn. Cautiously, so the restraining motion is concealed behind our podium, I place a hand on the arm that's not draped around my shoulders, trying to remind him of the myriad cameras that will be recording and broadcasting our every words. Silently begging him to be careful.

"We'd like to congratulate your tributes on their exemplary performance this year," he says, with voice guarded and teeth clenched. "And to wish the next year's tributes luck, may the odds be ever in their favor." The last part is rushed, I can see the internal conflict clouding his usually clear grey eyes. He wants to speak the truth even more so than I do.

Really, though, it's a marvel that either of us has managed to keep up this tongue-in-cheek way of speaking for so long.

But as I finish the short speech, even I am aware that my words are so obviously transparent. "We're honored that we have the privilege to participate in the Hunger Games." I speak the line with my head tilted downward, eyes on my orange clad toes. I'm terrified that if I look up, make eye contact with the audience, they'll immediately see the lies, portrayed crystal clear in my face.

A woman in the front row stands, looks pointedly into my eyes, and spits at the foot of the stage. The message behind her actions couldn't be more clear – she knew, and the rest of the audience as well, probably, that there wasn't the slightest trace of a truth in my words.

There's a fiery pain in her large, gold-brown eyes, the kind of eyes that seem all knowing and wise. Then, I recognize her. The woman who so boldly defied our words is Thresh's grandmother.

The realization must be evident on my face, because this time it's Gale who's remembered that we've got to remain stoic, we've got to endorse these capitol words or face the consequences. His grip on my shoulder tightens a little, and I try to relax against him.

But that's not going to happen – because there, just to the right of Thresh's family, is Rue's. They stand there feebly, all six of her younger siblings staring up at us with hungry eyes and slack jaws.

And they aren't the only ones who show signs of perilous, abused lives. The entire crowd is plagued by hunger, fatigue, desperation, and everything else imaginable. I can't help it, no matter what the repercussions, no matter what Snow's sadistic punishment is, I've got to say something.

My voice is hurried at first, but Gale's reassuring hug encourages me to continue, to be sure in my words. "Wait!" I cry. "And I want to say I'm sorry, I'm sorry I killed Thresh and…and I guess I shot Rue, too, but I'm sorry, not that an apology makes any difference. I just…needed to say that."

Gale sighs. I can tell he's come to the same conclusion I have. "But most of all, we're sorry you have to suffer through the games, every year. Even though just a few tributes enter that damn arena, every last one of us feels as though we're dying right there with them."

It's unavoidable – if we weren't in trouble before, we most definitely are now. But since we've started, why not finish it

"Even if we're competing against one another, the districts are united. United we stand, united we fall." Even as I say the words, I know I'm digging my own grave. I just hope it's not my family's grave, too.

Our words were nothing but pure, treasonous expletives, but I don't regret saying them. It was what these people deserved to hear.

Rue's little brother steps forward, pulling away from his mother's clutching grasp, and presses the three middle fingers of his right hand to his lips – and then the whole population of 11 is mirroring his actions, a surreal display that mirrors the one Gale and I witnessed as we left for the games all those months ago.

This is the last straw. Finally, the filming is cut and the peacekeepers intervene, guns cradled in their arms as they press against the crowd, and the little boy, who couldn't have been more than two, is forced forward.

Thousands of eyes watch, mortified, as a thin, white haired peacekeeper prods him in the back with the barrel of his gun, forcing him to his knees. The small child cries out in pain as his is torn on the cold asphalt beneath him, and tears stream freely down his cheeks, cutting through what looks like weeks' worth of grime. Another gun is placed deliberately and slowly at his temple. Even more slowly, a hand in a white glove stretches its fingers, and pulls the trigger.

We all hear the last, piercing scream of the dying child as it rings shrilly through the square, and then we see the mess of blood that's splattered everywhere before us, and the ruined, mutilated corpse that was a beautiful toddler just moments ago, and the destroyed, fractured remains of what I think are his skull.

Gale covers my eyes with one hand, briskly leading me away with the other. I drop the bouquet in a puddle of blood, and he tosses the ornate plaque to the ground, where the class frame shatters, just the way that poor child's life just did.

My mind is completely blank as I'm pulled through a door and through several corridors, and another door is locked behind me. We're in some kind of private, cluttered basement room, where there's little light and the air is cool and damp.

Haymitch is here with us, I realize, as he sloshes his whiskey into my face. Alcohol burns my eyes and nose, I gasp, spluttering.

Gale's arm leaves my side, I hear him scream something at Haymitch and there's a crash as something falls to the floor, who responds with choice profanity. The two shout unbelievable profanities at each other, voices escalating until I fear they'll physically harm one another.

Haymitch seems to have given up on Gale, as he thrusts his face close to mine. "What the hell were you thinking out there, sweetheart?" he hollers seethingly. "Not only did you completely screw your entire life, and your family's life, and my life, over, you got some damn kid killed in the process."

His words sting – because they're true. I gasp, trying to clear my shocked, dizzy mind and comprehend what's going on around me. I want to be strong, to be calm, to find some way to repair the damage I've done, but I can't do it. As I take a breath to speak my mind, to ask for forgiveness, the only thing that escapes my throat is an enormous, pitiful sob.

Suddenly Gale's tackled Haymitch, driving him into a bookshelf and smashing a mirror that got in their way. His fists are wrapped in our drunk mentor's shirt, and I know that he's contemplating strangling him. "Shut up, will you?" he growls, voice breaking.

I watch, unable to do anything, as they both slide to the ground, defeated in their own rights amid the shards of mirror.

'"Shit," says Haymitch.

Gale crawls tentatively to my side, wiping tears from my face. "I'm so sorry."

I look up, meet his smoky eyes, and lean my sweaty forehead against his. "It's not your fault. And it's not like there's anything we can do about it now."

Haymitch chuckles grimly behind us. "Exactly – it's about time you've figured it out." He pauses midway through to swig from his now nearly empty bottle, "Once you start a fire, it's hard to put it out."

Gale sighs before him, his warm breath blowing in my face. "Yeah, and Panem's gonna make a big fire."

Excellent. We've caused a wide-scale mutiny, and there's nothing left for us to do but embrace it, it and all of the deaths and tragedies it's going to cause.

The sound of an unrelenting, vicious knocking at the door to the basement interrupts our brief dispute, and our incensed emotions are replaced by a silent, foreboding dread of the man on the other side of that door. I freeze, breath catching in my throat.

Ever so slowly, I turn my head, my eyes meeting with Gale's matching ones. He looks deeply into my face for a moment, searching my eyes, before he gingerly cups a calloused hand over my mouth, ensuring my silence.

I watch, petrified with fear, as his free hand slips into the waistband of his rumpled suit, and withdraws his favorite hunting knife.

I know this knife well – it's the one I learned to skin a rabbit for the pelt with, the one he used whittle Prim and Rory and Posy's dolls and toys with, and the knife my mother has borrowed countless times to treat her patients.

It's not a knife that's been used against another human being before – whether wielded in self-defense or not.

But now it's griped firmly in his practiced fist, and aimed toward the place where that old, thick door will open.

Haymitch, who has been sprawled behind us, nursing the fresh cuts on his palms, scrambles to his feet, observing Gale and I shrewdly. Then Gale nods beside me, shifts his weight, and Haymitch has thrown open the door.

The same peacekeeper who shot Rue's little brother just minutes ago bursts into the cellar, gun cradled against his chest and white uniform splattered with red.

He only has a moment to search the room with those astute, pale eyes of his, before Gale has leapt forward, wrapping him in a headlock, and pressing the silver bladed hunting knife to the man's throat, where his adam's apple bobs nervously.

I stand, walking around to face the man, wrath and fury bubbling within me. Had I not proved to the world that I am a monster, just months before? And if I am a monster, what wicked name could be bestowed on this executionist?

As he struggles futilely against Gale's strong choke hold, I allow the rage to form itself into words. I'm shrieking, disjointed in my ranting, but I let the words tumble out of me all the same. "Barbarian! Who shoots an innocent child? You cruel beast, you son of a -b" I'm cut off as Haymitch grabs me from behind, breathing alcoholic breath down my back.

"You're not helping, sweetheart," he warns me gently, pulling me away from the peacekeeper and thrusting me behind his aged body, in a way that's oddly protective for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, here's to celebrating a guilty conscience. I'm so sorry I haven't been updating the way I should have, but the truth is, I just haven't written. Honestly, I've tried writing this thing like ten different ways, and only now have I found a plot that'll actually lead somewhere (I had to put some thought into this – imagine that!). **

**So – the real message here is this: **

**While I'm leaving the first little bit I wrote up, you can disregard the second half of it. The edited version will be posted next, with my alternative ending. **

**I'm hoping you'll like it better this way. **

**Hoping. **

**And as a reward for putting up with all this junk, I've written a short oneshot about the time in between the games and the victory in mind that I didn't put too much effort into this little snipet: **

**=)  
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The closet door is closed, and for good reason.

The closet door is closed because I'm trying to hide the monster behind that door.

The monster that used to be like an extension of my arm, the monster that was once my salvation from starvation.

I look at my hands. My prep team buffed all those familiar callouses from my skin, leaving the flesh on my hands so soft and vulnerable and…innocent.

But only by appearance.

Because these hands, regardless of which unthinkably expensive capitol moisturizers have been worked into them, have wielded a monster of a weapon. And they sure as hell used that weapon as well.

The weapon that, once I entered the arena, was no longer a tool in my quest to survive and feed my family, but a monster, artfully designed and mastered for one reason:

To kill children.

I sigh, giving in. I want to turn away and accept defeat, already wondering if I'll ever handle my bow again.

But Gale doesn't let me.

He steps up behind me, firm and athletic body molding around my back, making me feel small, but protected.

His deft hands capture mine, and he ensnares my fingers in the soft, padded leather glove he holds.

I flex my hand, admiring the soft give and take of the garment. "Cinna?"

I can feel Gale nod. "He made it so that you could use it, you know."

I take a deep breath.

It's true.

My words are apprehensive. "I know."

Gale turns the knob on my closet, slowly, and pulls the door open.

"You can do it, Catnip," he reassures me, muscular arm gesturing to the contents of the wardrobe.

I look up, ready to face the bow that holds so many memories.

Good memories, of my father's hands over mine, teaching me to aim and steady my hand as I shoot. Of me, in turn, teaching Gale to shoot, showing him how to position his fingers on the string, how to pull the string to his cheek until the bow flexed.

But there are bad memories, too, of pulling back that taught string, and watching my arrow sail into the chest, or even the forehead, of another kid. Of watching the bloodstain blossom across their flesh.

I look into his ashen eyes again, and Gale nods to me. He grabs my father's old hunting coat, draping it over my shoulders.

"Let's go hunting."

**SO, even though this was just a non-important oneshot, you shouldn't let that prevent you from leaving reviews. And be ready for the new and improved second edition of "WE BURN," coming soon to a theater near you!**

=)


	3. Chapter 3

**Gale & Katniss**

**We Burn**

**Part I**

**Alright, so since I basically decided that my first attempt at this was pretty much crap, I shall be presenting you with this lovely redo of what you've already read. In the next update, I think our dear friends Gale and Katniss will finally make some progress into the story. =) **

**And, seeing as how I have neglected to post a disclaimer for a while, I've got one right here: I'm not Suzanne Collins. There's just no way I'm that cool.  
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**Anyways, here's my second try. Reviews: is it better or worse? **

I slowly grind the toe of my expensive, designer capitol shoe into the ground behind the wooden podium, my manicured fingers twitching nervously. As I draw the courage to look toward the audience, I see the immense population of District 11 gathered before me. I pick up on a monotonous buzz, the sound of a crowd impatiently awaiting my words.

And I can only hope that I'll please them.

An Avox man dressed in a crimson toga hands Gale a large plaque that's inlaid with metal and covered in a thin sheet of glass, and presents me with a bouquet of flowers and a large, gleaming medal. I detect orange blossom, and enormous, perky daisies, and something else with small purple flowers that I can't quite place - and a single, white rose, dead center.

The ominous rose can mean only one thing: it's a warning, sent directly from President Coriolanus Snow himself.

The short, balding man in the red tunic nods to us from his station to the side of our stage. This is our cue to speak.

I suck down a deep gulp of air, preparing myself to deliver the first words of my first victory tour speech.

Clearing my throat, it takes me a few tries for my mouth to form coherent words, even though I'm only repeating the heavily censored prompts that have already been written down for me by someone in the capitol who's paid far, far too much money. Eyes glued to the large teleprompter with huge, fluorescent words before me, I begin to talk.

"We would like to thank you, the citizens of District 11, for your support of the 74th Hunger Games and of the Capitol," I say after a few false starts, my cheeks twitching with the falsely pleasant expression that Cinna has affixed to my face.

Now it's Gale's turn. Cautiously, so the restraining motion is concealed behind our podium, I place a hand on the arm that's not draped around my shoulders, trying to remind him of the myriad cameras that will be recording and broadcasting our every words. Silently begging him to be careful.

"We'd like to congratulate your tributes on their exemplary performance this year," he says, with voice guarded and teeth clenched. "And to wish the next year's tributes luck, may the odds be ever in their favor." The last part is rushed, I can see the internal conflict clouding his usually clear grey eyes. He obviously wants to speak the truth even more so than I do.

Really, though, it's a marvel that either of us has managed to keep up this tongue-in-cheek way of speaking for so long.

But as I finish the short speech, even I am aware that my words are undeniably transparent. "We're honored that we have the privilege to participate in the Hunger Games." I speak the line with my head tilted downward, eyes on my orange clad feet. I'm terrified that if I look up, make eye contact with the audience, they'll immediately see the lies, portrayed crystal clear on my face.

There's another emotion, as well - allowing these lies to escape my lips, I feel the slight edge of betrayal.

A woman in the front row stands, looks pointedly into my eyes, and spits at the foot of the stage.

The message behind her actions couldn't be more clear – she knew, and the rest of the audience as well, probably, that there wasn't the slightest trace of a truth in my words. I'm ashamed.

There's a fiery pain in her large, gold-brown eyes, the kind of eyes that seem all knowing and wise, being powerful and calm simultaneously. Then, I recognize her. The woman in the worn plaid shirt and the working boots who so boldly defied our words is Thresh's grandmother.

The realization must be evident on my face, because this time it's Gale who's remembered that we've got to remain stoic, we've got to endorse these capitol words or face the consequences. His grip on my shoulder tightens a little as he guesses my motives, and I try to relax against him.

But that's not going to happen – because there, just to the right of Thresh's family, is Rue's. They stand there feebly, all six of her younger siblings staring up at us with hungry eyes and slack jaws.

And they aren't the only ones who show signs of perilous, abused lives. The entire crowd is plagued by hunger, fatigue, desperation, and everything other trauma imaginable. I can't help it, no matter what the repercussions, no matter what Snow's sadistic punishment is, I've got to say something, as an act of gratitude toward these people.

My voice is hurried at first, but Gale's reassuring embrace encourages me to continue, to be sure in my words. "Wait!" I cry. "And I want to say I'm sorry, I'm sorry I killed Thresh and…and I guess I shot Rue, too, but I'm sorry, not that an apology makes any difference. I just…needed to say that."

Gale sighs. I can tell he's come to the same conclusion I have, and that he's entirely apprehensive about the words he plans on saying. That he's already calculated what the consequences of this action will be. "But most of all, we're sorry you have to suffer through the games, every year. Even though just a few tributes enter that damn arena, every last one of us feels as though we're dying right there with them."

The words are perfect, implying exactly what I had meant, but been unable to express.

It's unavoidable – if we weren't in trouble before, we most definitely are now. But since we've started, why not finish it?

"Even if we're competing against one another, the districts are united. United we stand, united we fall." Even as I say the words, I know I'm digging my own grave. I just hope it's not my family's grave, too. Regardless, though, the taste of these words in my mouth is just...correct. Like this was meant to be. And while our words were nothing but purely treasonous expletives, I don't regret speaking them. It was what these people deserved to hear.

Rue's little brother steps forward, wavy hair disheveled, pulling away from his mother's clutching grasp, and presses the three middle fingers of his right hand to his lips – and then the whole population of 11 is mirroring his actions, a surreal display that mirrors the one Gale and I witnessed as we left for the games all those months ago.

And I know: it's time for those repercussions.

This is the last straw. Finally, the filming is cut and the peacekeepers intervene, guns cradled in their arms as they press against the crowd, and the little boy, who couldn't have been more than two, is forced forward.

Thousands of eyes watch, mortified, as a thin, white haired peacekeeper prods him in the back with the barrel of his gun, forcing him to his knees. The small child cries out in pain as his skin is torn on the cold asphalt beneath him, and tears stream freely down his cheeks, cutting through what looks like weeks' worth of grime. Another gun is placed deliberately and slowly at his temple. Even more slowly, a hand in a white glove stretches its fingers, and pulls the trigger.

We all hear the last, piercing scream of the dying child as it rings shrilly through the square, and then we see the mess of blood that's splattered everywhere before us, and the ruined, mutilated corpse that was a beautiful toddler just moments ago, and the destroyed, fractured remains of what I think are his skull. The desecrated body, still dressed in the red and yellow flannel shirt.

Gale covers my eyes with one hand, briskly leading me away with the other. I drop the bouquet in a puddle of blood, and he tosses the ornate plaque to the ground, where the class frame shatters, just the way that poor child's life just did.

I know that the capitol won't be replaying the footage from this ceremony.

**So here's where I cut off the rest of the story – I won't delete it, but I think you should disregard it. Consider it pointless drabble. Trust me, the story will be so much better this way. So, thanks! **

**Reviews are lovely. In fact, I was inspired this afternoon BY a review from TINA to get writing. (see what I did there? I mentioned a reviewer in my story!). **

**Thanks. **

**=)  
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	4. Chapter 4

**Gale & Katniss**

**We Burn**

** Part II **

**And part two is up! I **_**profusely**_** apologize for how long this took – I was suffering from a severe case of writer's block, and on top of that I'm discovering that summertime leaves me with even LESS time for writing than I had during the school year. Now, while this is gonna be a short one, I have more ideas for the rest of the story now, and I'm a little bit inspired, so updates will probably be less sparse. And here's for the part where I drop down on my knees and beg: Please, please, with chocolate sauce, sprinkles, cherries, caramel, and glitter on top, leave some reviews. **

**Enjoy – a whole heck of a lot of work went into this puppy right here. **

My steps are hurried as I jog beside Gale. I try to close my eyes, to breathe deeply, to calm my racing heart, but even so, I can feel the stress emanating from his tense body.

Suddenly, I understand the plight of the terrified, feeble prey, running from a predator so much more powerful than it. Only up until this point, I've been the predator.

I can hear footsteps following us, those of dozens and dozens of peacekeepers. Our breathing is ragged, I feel like a rabbit caught in one of Gale's most complex snares as we race through the mazelike hallways of the justice building, desperate for a way out, even a hiding place.

The soft sounds of our footsteps are masked by the pounding of the heavy, impractical boots worn by the peacekeepers. The thuds of our pursuers' feet resonate through the long, wooden hallways, echoing throughout 11's justice building.

And it's when I realize that those footsteps are encroaching from both directions now, that we're trapped and unarmed, and completely vulnerable, that the panic truly sets in.

We're dead center in a long hallway, with a few locked doors on either side of us. Trapped. I look into Gale's eyes, and what I see there confirms my fears. Yes, having such a talent with snares, he would certainly know if there was any hope of an escape.

As the white clad peacekeepers begin to surround us, he releases my wrist and waist from his grasp, moving so that we're back to back. Prepared to protect each other, to watch the other's back, the way we always have been.

This time though, it's obvious we're not making it out on top. I'm constantly being reminded that we're outnumbered, unarmed, and completely desperate.

My attempts to control the trembling in my hands and knees are futile. Images of the dark skinned little boy, who was about Vick's age, I realize with a pang, and how he had been so mercilessly shot. I can only hope that as the most recent victors, Gale and I will be worth more than that.

But that's all it is: hope.

I back into Gale, my spine pressed against his. My breathing matches with his, and we raise our arms in submission at the same time.

The last thing I see is that same skinny peacekeeper directing a young assistant to sedate us.

I awaken to the sound of Gale's anxious voice, repeatedly murmuring my name into my ear.

"Katniss," he whispers urgently. "Katniss?"

One of his big hands strokes my forehead, brushing back a sweaty strand of my hair, as the other works to untie the clumsy rope bonds that had bound my hands and feet.

My eyes flutter open, and I see his face, shockingly close to mine. "Hey, Gale," I whisper.

He smiles, relieved. "Hey, Catnip."

I frown as my eyes adjust to the dim light and I become accustomed to my surroundings. We're confined in a small train car with grey walls and no windows. There's a locked door on the far end of the small, cold space, with a small slot for food.

Haymitch is slumped against the wall across from us, eyelids drooping as he fights to keep his eyes open. A thread of drool hangs from his open mouth, and it's obvious that he won't be recovering from the effects of whatever they knocked us out with for a while.

I reach to the side, finding Gale's hand and holding it tightly. He pulls me closer to him and wraps his arms around my waist, holding me in his lap. His fingers trace a swelling, purple bruise on my wrist, and I can tell he's already plotting his revenge on whoever did this to us.

"Where are we?" I ask.

"I don't know," he replies, grey eyes troubled. "We haven't stopped moving for about an hour - I think we're somewhere on the train." What he doesn't mention is how much trouble we're in, and how much trouble we've caused. Not just for ourselves, but for our family and friends as well. For the people in the districts.

"I don't think this is going to be the worst of our punishment," I say, fearing the truth in my own words.

Across from us, Haymitch stirs, rubs his eyes, and spits to the side. I hadn't known he was conscious. A deep rumbling emanates from his chest, and I realize that he's laughing drunkenly. "You think this is punishment, sweetheart?" he sighs loudly. "This ain't nothing."

Gale protectively pulls me closer to him, his chin resting on the top of my head.

"Just wait, you two. Just wait until you see what Snow really is willing to do. This is the man who endorses the Hunger Games that we're talking about, after all."

An involuntary shudder runs through my body.

"What'll he do?" Gale asks, his deep voice hoarse with worry.

Haymitch looks up at us, his grey Seam eyes bloodshot and watering, and takes a moment to consider his words before speaking. "I wasn't always a lonely old drunk."

I know enough to let it be at that.

We're not released from our concrete prison until we reach the next district, and then we're only permitted the amount of freedom one gets while being groomed by an anxious stylist. My prep team makes it absolutely clear how much my appearance has deteriorated in the past few days, muttering their complaints as they pluck, tweeze, and dye my body.

If only they knew.

I've nearly been reduced to tears when Cinna walks in, brow furrowed in concern, and dressed entirely in black. Judging from the long cut on his cheek and the swelling under his left eye, I can say that I'm not the only one who's 'appearance has deteriorated' due to my actions. Another pang of guilt shoots through me.

"Hello, Katniss," he says, voice soft.

I look up, meet his eyes.

He speaks again. "I'm so sorry."

Still, I don't speak. There are just no words that I want to say. The last time I opened my mouth, it yielded catastrophic results.

Cinna continues, undeterred. "But once this has started, you haven't got much choice."

I look into his lined eyes again, puzzled at what he implies. But there are no more words from him, and he only smudges my face a bit and guides me into my silvery dress.

So I'm left to face another crowd, another angry and unsettled district.

Gale and I are still permitted to give our speeches before the districts, and the cameras still stream live feed to the newscast. But the increased restrictions are far from undetectable. Gale and I are constantly escorted by an armed guard, and then when it's time to travel to the next district, we're tied up, sedated, and thrown into the grey prison car.

The performances become hollow, as I learn to direct my gaze above the heads of the crowd, to avoid eye contact, to remain removed from the entire proceeding. Gale and I create a perfect illusion, smiling and peaceful in our happily-ever-after. But without all the emotion, that's all that it is: an illusion.

As impassive as I try to be, though, each time I smile, wave, and wish the citizens of whichever district a "Happy Hunger Games," I feel a little bit more ashamed.

From the plagued masses of District 10, to the angry, restless crowds of 7 and 8, though, I notice something that gives me hope. It's the support of these people, it's their obvious yearning to escape the capitol's oppression. Whether the citizens are simply fearful and exhausted, or bubbling with a rebellious energy, everywhere we go, I detect it.

After the District 5 banquet, I lie in with my head in Gale's lap, silent tears leaking from my eyes as I try not to remember the forlorn faces of the malnourished children, or the anger bubbling just beneath the surface in the case of the emaciated adults.

"We're just making it worse," I murmur, voicing the guilt I have for all the trouble I've caused.

He moves his hand to cup my cheek, brushing tears away with his thumb. I notice how the callouses from his ropes and snares have begun to grow back, and I cherish the roughness of the skin. I'm that depraved of any kind of texture in this smooth, empty cell.

"We can do something," he says. "Something. I think it's time there was a change in this country."

A change – isn't that what we've all been waiting our entire lives for?

"We're two people."

"Victors," says Gale. "And the people – you can see it in their eyes. They're ready for a change, too."

I consider these words, both terrified and exhilarated by the implications of treason that we speak of, and by the sheer truth in them. Just to imagine a new Panem, an ease in the terror and hunger and tyranny that we all face…

"You really think we could do it, just the two of us?"

Gale leans forward to kiss my nose. "Like I said, Catnip. I don't think we're the only ones."

I tilt my chin up so that our lips are nearly touching. "Alright," I say. "I guess it's gotta start somewhere."

Our lips brush as I speak, and it's like an electric shock is sent through my body. Our eyes meet, and I twist myself up so Gale's mouth can mine reach better, and our mouths meet again. My ears pound, and as our lips move together, I forget where I am.

Gale's hands tangle themselves in my hair, stroking my head as he kisses me zealously. And I react with equal enthusiasm, urgently kissing Gale as he holds me tight.

Passion – it's a good way to escape reality.

**Well, there ya go. And the next update is coming soon! And we might (maybe, I'm not quite sure) get to meet Finnick. I'm thinking about it, whether I REALLY want to integrate another character's dynamics into this story…**

**So. Solution to that problem = you tell me what you think. **

**=) **


	5. Chapter 5

**Gale & Katniss**

**We Burn **

**Part III**

**Alright. I admit it, I was incredibly lazy. It took me MORE than two weeks to post this sucker, and I can't really use the writer's block excuse again. And after all that, it turns out to be a short little transition chapter. But ANYWAYS. We're starting to get somewhere. The morbidly exciting traumas of this chapter might make up for the rather dismal length. **

**But more importantly, immense thanks to everyone who reviewed. That was a major motivating factor for me. Probably, I'll need a little bit more motivation later, if you catch my drift. **

**So, if I really do need to use a disclaimer, here's one: Suzanne Collins is the genius here, not me. **

**ENJOY. **

At some point during the night, I notice how wet the air is here. Humidity was never something we encountered in twelve, and it's a strange sensation. It's like the oxygen's become heavier.

Reluctantly, I open my eyes, and see Gale smiling down at me, grey eyes clear. He shifts his shoulder and combs my hair back behind my ear. "Welcome to District 4, Catnip."

I sit up, a little stiff from sleeping on the hard concrete floor of our prison for the past weeks, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My back hurts from laying on my side the way I have been, and I wince. Cold, stony concrete makes my old thin, threadbare mattress seem like heaven.

But all the same, if this is the price I have to pay…

"I can smell the ocean," I say, tasting the saltiness of the air. The ocean. Big, extending all the way into the horizon. Something I've only ever heard stories about.

Gale smiles. "We'll get to see it later, too."

I don't know how my prep team manages to make me presentable. Reluctantly, I admit that they're miracle workers. When I look into the mirror after they've remade me for the speech, the transformation is unbelievable.

The dark, purple bruises under my eyes are concealed, and the puffy flesh is soothed. The ragged edges of my nails have been polished and buffed, and the greasy tangle of my hair is now silky and styled. I look fresh and healthy – not like I've been dreading my fate for the past month, shivering on a concrete floor as I struggle futilely to sleep, only daring to hope that the next day won't be too much worse than the last.

If only I had a prep team for my life. If only the outside matched the inside. But then again, I should know by now. It's all an illusion.

Once again, I'm stationed beside Gale at a podium, clutching a bouquet of flowers in one hand, Gale's hand in the other. Holding tight to him for support.

This being the seventh victory speech we've given, I had thought it would be a little easier, or that maybe I'd have gotten used to it by now.

But I was wrong, as is typical these days.

Before us, the tanned, sinewy people of 4 shift uneasily. To the left, sits the infamous Finnick Odair, lounging comfortably in his customary shirtless suit alongside the other victors from his district. Haymitch and Effie sit to the right, backs stiff. Effie's blue wig looks a bit rumpled, and I'm not sure whether Haymitch is sober. It wouldn't be too troublesome for him to find alcohol somewhere. Behind them is the glistening ocean, the waves breaking gently on the shoreline; and a row of cameramen are stationed directly at the base of the stage. Their equipment glistens in the sun, ready to capture every word of our speech. Preparing to broadcast our words to the nation.

"Thank you for welcoming us into your district," says Gale monotonously, repeating the same words for the umpteenth time now. The crowd moves again, and I hear a slight buzz when the people whisper amongst themselves.

Yes, I think. Gale was right.

"And thank you for your tributes, and their participation in our games." My line is delivered through clenched teeth, as always.

The murmurs of the crowd grow louder. They are not happy to hear these words.

These people are ready for a change. It's evident, the way they react, almost angrily, to every scripted word we say.

I look at Gale for a moment, search his concerned face, and see that he's reached the same conclusion as I have. That we might as well speak out. We might as well be truthful.

"But what I really want to say is that we're sorry. Sorry for those tribute's lives, wasted every year for some barbaric capitol entertainment."

There's a click as the cameras are simultaneously shut off. No one wants these words broadcasted to the rest of the country. Still, though. I don't doubt that Snow's listening to every word.

Peacekeepers encroach upon us.

Gale raises his voice to be heard above the tumultuous shouts of excitement and anger and fear around us as the crowd's excitement grows. He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the words that will probably condemn us. "And most of all, we're sorry that the last rebellion failed."

There is one moment of absolute silence, in which we're all frozen, waiting to see the reaction to these words.

Then he grabs my arm, tugs me along beside him, and we run.

We know from experience this time not to try returning to the Justice Building and its unknown maze of hallways, with locked doors at every turn. No, this time, we charge straight through the crowd, making a break for the open sands in front of us.

The people part around us, making way for our escape. I realize that the crowd is cooperating with us, that they want us to escape.

And so we flee.

I'd always imagined what the sands of the beach would feel like between my toes, the way the soft give of the sand would slow my stride. It wasn't a sensation I had wanted to have while being chased by the district's police force. I hadn't wanted to feel the ocean's waves against my ankles while terrified for my life, and for Gale's life.

We run, heading for the docks where all the fishermen's boats are moored, unattended as their owners watch our speech. Knowing that however vain our plan might be, it's still our only hope.

I don't know what we were planning to do when we found a boat, where we were planning to go. The only thoughts in my mind at the time were escape.

But those hopes are dashed as we set foot onto the worn wooden planks, and Finnick pulls himself up out of the water, and onto the pier, blocking our paths.

His shirt is gone and his sculpted, bronzed body glistens as the saltwater runs off of him. His muscular chest heaves with exertion. It's no wonder how he gained his reputation.

I look upward, into his sea green eyes, and I see the man who was crowned victor at only fourteen. And I know that while he's spent years in the capitol, it hasn't taken away the instincts he used in the games.

I'm frozen in fear, but Gale is not. He lunges for the knife he's got stuffed into his boot, wielding it at the victor before us in one fluid motion. Ready to stop at nothing, if it means our freedom. I remember the way he faced off with the enormous Cato in our games, and I can't help but wonder what it would come down to if the two of them fought – victor versus victor.

Finnick smiles easily, grabbing a spear from the mess of fishing equipment beside us, and almost lazily turns to point it at me.

My eyes widen. It occurs to me that as beautiful as Finnick Odair is, he's also very, very smart.

"It's called an impasse, Hawthorne."

Gale knows enough about prey mentality to know it's true: the way a bear will forever protect her cub, even if it means certain death for her, the way a hunter uses the prey's instincts against it. The way that right now, he's being forced to halt his attack to keep me safe.

"Dammit, Odair," shouts Gale.

I'm unprepared for what happens next. As I'm calculating just what I can do, wondering if I can grab a spear before he's retaliated, Finnick removes his weapon from my face, and tosses the weapon into the sea with that signature crooked grin. "Take my boat – it's faster."

I look at Gale, he looks at me. We debate silently, questioning whether we can trust him.

We don't get to make the choice, though. The hundreds of armed peacekeepers behind us make the choice for us.

I look at Finnick again, and I wonder what his motives are. Why he's decided to help us, whether this could be a trap. I question why he's choosing to help us, when it'll cause him so much trouble.

"Where's your boat?" I ask.

He guides us to the sleek, shining vessel at the end of the row. The words 'Poseidon's Victory' adorn the side in curling gold writing. His vessel is the image of unwanted, unnecessary luxury.

He starts the boat for us and pulls it out of the slot where it was anchored and into the harbor, moving his boat quickly and expertly, like he's been doing this his entire life. Which, undoubtedly, he has.

He climbs onto the railing at the side of the boat, preparing to dive into the water, but he looks back at us. "You're not going to make it far, you know," he says, addressing Gale. Next, he turns to me. "Nobody escapes the capitol, sugar."

And he dives. There's hardly a splash as he enters the water, and within seconds he's yards away from us.

I move to Gale's side as the boat accelerates, contemplating Finnick's words. It's only becoming more and more evident how much trouble we're in.

**Yet another cliffhanger! Hehe, sorry about that, but…**

**Reviews are astronomically great. My readers are amazing. Preview for the next chapter: Maybe now that Gale and Katniss are alone together, finally….i don't know. But there will be some fluff, just to give the story some more depth. Oh, and I'm having trouble with deciding exactly HOW well Gale should be able to drive the boat..he's never done it before, but how difficult should it be? And what kind of boat do you think it is? **


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